Though security was severe and the streets around the new Hollywood & Highland complex were chock-a-block with throngs of anti-war protesters, one wouldn't have known a thing was amiss once stepping into the Kodak Theatre. The set was as ostentatious as ever; host Steve Martin, eyeing the two giant Oscars crowning the stage above him, sarcastically remarked that he was "glad they toned down the glitz." Of course one oughtn't ask for a ceremony so radically pared down that it becomes unrecognizable; the tradition (and, at this point, the purpose) of the Oscars would duly be defeated.
But for the first half of the show there was absolutely no indication that anyone in that gilded coop, probably overwhelmed by the astonishing oblivion manifested in the production, was even aware of a war raging outside. As a result, it actually came as a relief when Michael Moore, winner of Best Documentary Feature for his anti-gun film "Bowling for Columbine," hauled all the nominees in his category onstage and proceeded to decry "a fictitious president," managing to holler "we are against this war, Mr. Bush! Shame on you, Mr. Bush! Shame on you!" before being cut off by the receding microphone and a cacophony of boos-surprising, considering the notorious left-wing leanings of the community.
The appropriateness of his remarks is dubious at best, but a puncture in the chimera was overdue. The Academy Awards, over the course of the past 75 years, have always been a reflection of their times, whether unconsciously (the fantastic, and hilarious, history of the culture of fashion and celebrity offered by pictures of ceremonies past) or bombastically (Vanessa Redgrave's incendiary 1977 speech, in which she demonstrated her support of a Palestinian homeland by commending the Academy for resisting the pressure of "Zionist hoodlums"). The seemingly increasing insularity evidenced by the ritual's insensible staging was undeniably disturbing.
Yet eventually, an influence could be felt. Moore's screechings proved to be the only inflammatory comments of the night, but subsequent presenters and winners chose quieter ways to reflect on the upheaval. Presenters such as Susan Sarandon and Colin Farrell wore peace pins of various kinds; winners, though they for the most part avoided taking an outright stance, were not without comment. "Why do you come to the Academy Awards when the world is in such turmoil?" asked visibly subdued Best Actress winner Nicole Kidman, who had considered not attending. "Because art is important, and because you believe in what you do, and you want to honor that. And it is a tradition that needs to be upheld." Honorary Oscar winner Peter O'Toole joined in voicing support of the ceremony, commenting backstage that "If we civilians can't go on properly, why on earth are they fighting? There's no point, surely." It was with the guests, and not with the show's producers, that credit for altering the tenor of the ceremony is due.
As for the awards themselves, the selections were dappled with a set of tiredly stock choices that were both inconsistent and often inexplicable. The natural place to begin is with the strange case of Best Picture winner "Chicago," which led the nomination field with a near-record 13. The film was widely expected to pull off, if not a complete sweep, something relatively close, especially considering the fact that a lot of its nominations-for example, the Supporting Actor and Actress nominations for John C. Reilly and Queen Latifah, both of whom had totally minor and unremarkable roles-were clearly the result of the film's momentum and not their individual merit.
But for various reasons-the unusually stiff competition, the influence of the war (which no doubt had much to do with the surprising championing of "The Pianist"), the distaste that Miramax's aggressive campaign on behalf of the film inspired-"Chicago" managed to grab only part of its expected cache. The result was that it prevailed in the minor technical categories, in which it was least deserving, while losing-by, one imagines, pretty small margins-in major categories in which its nominations were actually merited. Most striking were its wins for Art Direction and Costume Design. "Chicago," while it had an undeniably effective and subject-appropriate aesthetic, was hardly outstanding in either category. More importantly, among its competition were films like "Gangs of New York"-which, though a feat of technical historical accuracy, failed to garner the few awards it actually deserved thanks to the senseless perception of merit a film with "Chicago's" thrust instigates.
Equally problematic were "Chicago's" wins for Best Editing and Best Supporting Actress. The former award, strangely enough, is one of the best predictors of the Best Picture, almost always accompanying that award-largely, one is led to suspect, because those who vote in the category have little notion of what the term signifies. Thus "Chicago's" win was hardly unexpected, but a travesty nonetheless. It was competing against "The Hours," a film whose very essence relies on the transitions between its three storylines and which, if considered even remotely effective, should have been rewarded for its editing if nothing else. The fact that Catherine Zeta-Jones was rewarded (in the Supporting Actress category) for a performance so very uninspired, is yet another indicator of the overriding, and meaningless, strength of mass estimation.
The awards were also characterized by more surprise winners than one could have predicted in a race that seemed, a mere three weeks ago, so unambiguous. The most heartening of these was the triumph of Eminem's brilliant "Lose Yourself" as Best Original Song. The cardinal rule of this category, in recent years, has been that the award can never go to the best song; rather, the winner is based on the record's popularity or the prestige of the performing artist. This year presented a veritable gold mine of choices for the predominantly sexagenarian Academy voting body: there were songs by Paul Simon and U2, as well as a number from the one nominated (and hugely popular) musical. On top of all these factors, Eminem had long ago declined his invitation to perform, let alone attend, the ceremony, a move that could hardly have appealed to the smug coterie that is the Academy. Whether their choice was motivated by a genuine recognition of quality rather than a desire to establish what they might conceive of as street cred is questionable, but, on a night like last Sunday, considerably uplifting.
Less creditable was "The Pianist's" out-of-left-field hat trick. Roman Polanski's film garnered three major awards, Best Director, Best Actor (for Adrien Brody) and Best Adapted Screenplay. Not only had it been considered a long shot in all three categories, but two of those-Director and Actor-also had a pair of heavy favorites and had heretofore been considered all but closed.
On the one hand, any attempt by the historically narrow-minded Academy to thwart their own conventions and award films based on, at this point, just about any criteria more valid than habit, ought to be commended. The fact that Martin Scorsese was not awarded the Best Director prize, in what would have been the type of retrospective amends the status-minded Academy simply loves to administer, is grounds for admiration in itself. But one can't help mistrusting their motivations in picking such a film as "The Pianist." It's difficult not to feel that the lack of restraint by the ceremony's producers was balanced by a conservative spurt of voting that led to a film being honored for the sake of honoring the subject of war, an ironically twisted and contrary situation irrespective of the reasoning behind it. And upon closer examination, the accolades for "The Pianist" can hardly be called groundbreaking-has there ever been a semi-decent film about the Holocaust that Academy voters haven't felt obliged to run like scared rabbits and vote for? As fine a film as "The Pianist" is, its weaknesses lie in the cliches of plot and presentation that underscore its final impact. And where does the blame for this fall if not in its screenplay and direction?
On what note we can leave this year's Academy Awards is finally unclear. Very few of the choices arouse much confidence that this weary stalwart is making moves towards stepping off its chariot and getting, so to speak, in touch with reality-with the reality of films, with the reality of our culture. At the end of the day the tactlessness of the ceremony was hardly surprising; to deplore formula choices feels worn-out and futile. At this point, whatever awareness, whatever moderation, was evident in the proceedings, is, in all its inadequacy, something to find oneself thankful for.